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About the author:
A professional technical writer, Anne discovered that getting laid off was actually A Very Good Thing. While looking for her next writing gig, she picked up her pen (well, okay, she used her writing as an excuse to buy a new Apple laptop) and started writing. She soon discovered that writing was uncomfortably similar to sit-ups: add a few more crunches each day, wake up sore, but, by God, you will fit into that bikini. Or finish the book (she’s still working on the bikini). Now she cranks out software manuals during the daylight hours– and writes about alpha shapeshifters the rest of the time.
What inspired you to write your book?
I’ve always heard the phrase “Once in a blue moon…” and wondered what, exactly, that meant. Since the actual answer (two full moons in a calendar month) wasn’t all that exciting, I decided to write a more exciting explanation of my own.
Here is a short sample from the book:
The man tying up at Lark’s dock was gorgeous. Broad-shouldered, Cajun and dark, he was a giant of a man. God, that was a Breaux for you. There was no missing the impressive erection he sported, either. Apparently she had the same effect on him he had on her. Wet heat blossomed between her legs. His eyes were fierce, an ice grey that melted as he examined her face. For a fleeting moment, he’d looked like a cold-blooded killer and a predator. Now he just looked hungry.
He wore a pair of faded jeans, but otherwise he was barefoot and bare-chested. He made absolutely no pretense at being civilized, and yet she couldn’t help herself. She breathed in the clean, male scent of him and wanted him on sight. He stood motionless at the end of her dock, where he had tied up his boat, frozen in an almost predatory stillness. As if he wouldn’t move until she gave some unspoken signal.
As if he believed she might be afraid of him.
The only thing she feared for right now was her virtue.
His bare chest had her heating right up, and when she dropped her gaze to the denim-covered thighs, she almost went up in flames. Dear God. They grew them hot in the bayou. The sweet flush of arousal sweeping through her was better than any date she’d had with her vibrator.
A slow, masculine smile tugged at his lips, and he strolled towards her, six-plus feet of rugged Cajun man. Her mind promptly took a detour into fantasy land.
And yet he seemed more familiar than her few long-distance glimpses of his family warranted. “Have we met?” she asked.
“Not yet.” That honeyed accent made listening to him pure pleasure.
“Lark Andrew,” she said, holding out a hand. He wrapped her fingers in his, turning her palm up and stroking the lines there with his thumb.
“Rafer Breaux.” His fingers tightened briefly on hers.
“You come in from the bayou?” Sidetracked by her libido, her brain produced an inanity to help the conversation along. He didn’t look like he minded much, though.
“Sure did.” His caramel drawl was sinful. “Do a little fishin’. A little huntin’.” He watched her, clearly waiting for her to say something.
“What can I do for you today?” She took a step backward. Heat blasted off him. She turned and headed back up the dock, knowing instinctively that he’d follow. Sure enough, he was close on her heels.
“I wan’—” His voice was hoarse, deep. Sexy as hell. Like he didn’t speak often and made it count when he did. “Flowers,” he finished, and for a moment she wondered if he’d intended to substitute another word. Another desire.
And damned if that didn’t make her wetter.
The walk to the greenhouse was too short. Her thighs clenched with need, her pussy drenched because he was right behind her. She had the strangest sensation of being stalked by a wild animal, but she didn’t feel threatened. The warm flush of desire was so unlike her. She wanted to wrestle him to the ground, mark him and claim him as hers.
He didn’t speak again until they reached the first greenhouse. “You alone here?”
She waved a hand at the other people working in the yard and fields. “Does it look like I’m alone?”
“Family.” His hand shot out over her head, pushing open the door for her. She had to duck under that hard arm. “I’d heard Miss Dixie passed on.”
The pain was still there, a softer stab now rather than a bright, hard hurt. She missed her grandmother. “You really don’t get out of the bayou much, do you?”
He followed her down the greenhouse’s narrow aisle, and she should have been nervous, but wasn’t. He was large and too close, a predator on her heels. And that was ridiculous. He was just a man. An almost-neighbor who simply lived deeper inside the bayou than she did.
“No,” he said quietly. “I don’ leave the bayou much anymore.”
And yet he’d come to her for flowers. She stopped by a wooden table loaded with fragrant sweet pea. “What’s the occasion?”
He looked at her but didn’t answer. Maybe it was one of those bayou things. She probably didn’t need to know, but, damn it, he intrigued her. She wanted to learn more about her bayou man.
“What do you need the flowers for?” she asked again, finding the dark flush of color on his face strangely endearing. “An evening out?”
“Somethin’ like that,” he agreed.
He struck her as a man who knew precisely what he wanted, but maybe flowers weren’t his thing. Choosing for him wouldn’t be a problem. She reached for the scissors.
“You’re going to get grower’s choice.”
That slow smile was back in his eyes. “You can always choose for me, chère.” He propped a hip against her worktable and watched her cut, his eyes following her hands.
She cut slowly, selecting her favorites. “This one has a pretty scent,” she suggested, handing him a slim spray of flowers. He took the stem from her, his fingers touching hers. Deliberately. The soft-rough brush of his calloused skin against hers kicked the heat in her belly—and lower—up a notch. She’d have to change her panties after he left. His eyes flared as if he knew. Which was impossible.
“This one’s sweet,” he agreed, leaning forward and tucking the stem into the bouquet she was building. The sexy look of concentration on his face as he maneuvered the flower into place, big fingers stroking down the petals, almost overruled her sensible side. She didn’t know him. If Rafer Breaux rarely left the bayou, well, she never went in the bayou.
He pulled his hands away, but not before she got a good look at the nicks and scars carving up his fingers. Knives, fishing lines… She didn’t know what would mark a man so deeply, but his hands were strong and capable, a road map of doing what had to be done and some primitive part of her responded.